Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [80]
“Looks like your dreams might come true, after all, baby girl,” he said bitterly. “Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe your darling cousin Nate isn’t dead. But if you don’t get out of here, you will be. I can’t protect you, Jamie. Stay here and die, or run like hell.”
He spun around, went over to the huge garage door and opened it. She backed the car around, heading it toward the open door and the snowy morning. The heat had come on, pouring down on her bare feet, and she pushed her hair out of her face. Her face that was wet with tears she hadn’t even realized she’d cried.
She wouldn’t see him again, she knew it. She needed to put the car in Drive and get the hell out of there.
She didn’t move. He came back to the car, still wearing the T-shirt stained with her blood. He leaned in the window of the car, put his hand behind her neck and kissed her, a hard, desperate kiss that lasted an eternity and only a moment. And then he drew back.
“Get out of here, Jamie. And don’t ever come back.”
And putting the car into Drive, she tore out of the garage, onto the empty, snow-covered streets.
18
Dillon stood in the open garage door, watching until the taillights of the old Cadillac disappeared into the snowy morning. And then he closed the doors and locked them. Locked himself in with the dead body of his best friend. With the murderous ghost of his oldest friend.
Except that he didn’t believe in ghosts. Not in ghosts that could use a knife, the way someone had used a knife on Mouser. He recognized Nate’s signature—Mouser wasn’t the first person Nate had killed. Though from what little Dillon had discovered, he preferred to hurt women.
He reached for his cigarettes, and he noticed his hands were shaking. He figured he had two choices. One was to call the police and try to convince them that he, a convicted felon, had nothing to do with the dead body in his garage. The second dead body in the last three months. For some reason he didn’t think Lieutenant MacPherson was going to be listening, no matter how reasonable he’d seemed. And they certainly wouldn’t take his word for it that Mouser had been killed by a dead man.
Even more important, they’d drag Jamie back to Wisconsin. It was her car, it would be covered in her fingerprints. Maybe they’d be satisfied with someone taking a long-distance deposition. After all, an upper-class innocent like Jamie wasn’t the type to kill a stranger.
But he couldn’t take the chance. He’d be fine if he could just be certain he never had to see her again. She made him crazy, mean and stupid and out of his mind, and he couldn’t afford to let that happen. He’d accepted the fact long ago—she wasn’t for him. The fact that he’d had her, in just about every possible way, for the last two days was a boon he’d never expected. And didn’t dare try to repeat.
He patted his pockets, looking for his lighter, but it wasn’t anywhere. Must have fallen out of his pocket in the sofa. When he’d slept with his arms around Jamie.
He hadn’t slept much. Hadn’t allowed himself to. There was something dangerous, evil in the old building, and he didn’t dare relax his guard.
And if he was going to be honest with himself, he had to admit that he wanted to watch her. Feel her slow, steady heartbeat against his chest. Listen to the soft sound of her breathing.
He’d left the trunk open, too busy keeping Jamie away to worry about it. He reached up to close the lid, looking down at what was left of Mouser.
“Sorry, old friend,” he said softly. “I should have known what was going on. I should have warned you.”
But Mouser wasn’t going to be answering. There was nothing Dillon could do for him at this point, and he was damned if he was going to cry. He hadn’t cried since he was eight years old and his mother had left him with his drunken old man. He certainly wasn’t going to start now.
He started to put the cigarettes back in his pocket, then stared down at the crumpled pack. Mouser was always lecturing him about his smoking, telling him it was going to kill him. But